


Talk To Me, I'm Losing My Mind

by hidley



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Meta, Selfaware!Grif
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:18:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidley/pseuds/hidley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grif has always had the ability to spot when things in their lives didn’t make any sense, whether it be the presence of a never-moving sun, or the fact they can never drop their guns. But sometimes being the only one who can seemingly see any of these things can drive him insane. And he is fortunate that Simmons is always there for when his thoughts get a little bit too meta.</p>
<p>Selfaware!Grif having the equivalent to panic attacks over the occasional abrupt realisation that none of them exist outside of a video game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk To Me, I'm Losing My Mind

'Where do you think we are, Simmons?'

Simmons looked up from the book in his hands and over at Grif, tensing as he saw the other man looking directly at him from across the bunker. They had been in here for a few hours, sitting silently on either sides of the room. Simmons had assumed his team mate had fallen asleep a long time ago, but he himself had stayed up, trying to finish the novel Jensen had given him the day before. She had been blushing furiously as she had handed it over, telling her Captain that she thought he might like it as it had some interesting stories from veteran cyborgs and various chapters on body mechanic maintenance. Initially baffled by the gift, Simmons had stuttered out his appreciation and the Lieutenant had beamed and skipped off. She was an odd one, but Simmons couldn't help but like her.

It had actually been a really good book, and he had just been getting into the final chapter as he was interrupted by his orange-armoured room mate.

Who was still staring at him, apparently waiting for an answer.

Simmons shuffled, adjusting his slumped posture and cleared his throat. Grif often had these moments of sudden questioning, more so since they had joined the New Republic, and Simmons had long since learnt just to go with it. ‘We’re at the Rebel base. On Chorus.’

Grif’s reply was immediate, his gaze unwavering. ‘But where else?’

'Well, on the edge of colonized space, on our way to-'

'Where else?'

'I-'

'Where else are we?'

'We- we-' Simmons struggled to figure out what was being asked of him. 'We're in the Captain's quarters, in our shared-'

' _No_ ,’ Grif said, the force of the word accompanied by a launch from the bed and onto his feet, hands rubbing over his face and entire body tensing, winding up like the hands of clock. ‘No, that’s not right.’

Simmons let out a silent exhale, closing the book in his hand and slotting it into the ledge above his head before pulling his sheets off himself and standing. He made no move towards his team mate, who was pacing heavily around the room. ‘Grif,’ he said, evenly.

Grif didn't react to his name, eyes cast down at the floor and mouth muttering words that Simmons couldn't hear.

'Grif, look at me.'

'Simmons.' Grif said his name once and then looked up, eyes unnaturally wide and face a haze of fear and confusion.

'Hey,' Simmons said, smiling kindly and raising his palm up towards the other man. 'It's alright.'

He waited as Grif stared at him, feet now still but body taut and on edge, like he was expecting something to jump out and attack him. The fact that his eyes were fixed on Simmons’ and not darting all over the place was an easy sign as to how much he was paying attention, but Simmons had learnt from experience that that didn't always mean he processed what was being said to him. Far too often had he been pushed too far too quickly and had to be calmed down from something much worse than this.

And so Simmons treated him like he would an animal, keeping his voice low and his expression unimposing, patiently waiting for the tale-tale signs that Grif was coming out of one of his strange, existential episodes.

It was the middle of the night, and so it was very unlikely anyone would be coming knocking on their door, but Simmons listened out regardless, knowing an interruption would only make things worse.

_Come on, Grif_ , he thought, only slightly impatiently. He’d had to deal with this a thousand times before. _Snap out of it_.

The man in question continued to stare, keeping so still he could be glitched. The sight of a man normally so laid back and relaxed, frozen in the middle of his bunker, looking to anyone like he was about to bolt and flee a fucking hundred miles away if given the chance, was one that had chilled Simmons to the core the first time he’d had to deal with it. They hadn't even been acquainted all that long, barely aware of each other’s first names when the night came when Grif flipped, trashing their room back in Blood Gulch and shouting helplessly about hidden screens and motionless skies. Simmons had watched, horrified as Grif tore at his helmet, trying to rip it from his head and smash it against the wall, screaming about how they were nothing but empty shells, empty soldiers made for nothing else but war. That they weren't here, they weren't real. That the guns in their hands were impossible to drop until the day was done, and they could retreat back inside the base and finally be people again, finally be _real_.

He had screamed for hours before Simmons could bring himself to tell him to stop. To grab him by the shoulders and talk him down, telling him over and over again that they were real, that they were real people fighting a real war in a real world. That they weren't made, they were born. That they had homes, families, names. That his name was Dexter Grif, and he couldn't ever forget that.

Neither he nor Grif got any sleep that night, but in the long hours that Simmons held his hand, murmuring to him that everything was okay, and asking him questions about Hawaii and his sister, he learned everything there was to know about his newly assigned team mate, and Grif’s name was forever burned into his memory, there for whenever the other man forgot.

It had gotten better over time, and now, years later, it was almost routine, as Simmons kept the soft smile on his face, and stood perfectly still as Grif’s eyes finally began to flicker. He risked a small sentence. ‘Hey, buddy.’

Grif blinked slowly, his eyelids gradually starting to droop. ‘Hey,’ he murmured, voice thick.

Simmons took one small step forwards and waited. When Grif didn't seem to react negatively, he took another, and another, and another until he could wrap his arms around the pudgy orange man and sigh with relief as he felt an immediate hug in return.

'You're okay,' Simmons said into his soft, downy hair, hand slowly stroking the length of Grif's back. 'You're alright.'

Grif said nothing, but clung to Simmons’ maroon shirt, fingers grasping the material as he pressed his face into the taller man’s neck and just breathed.

Simmons felt the vibration of Grif’s apology on the skin of his neck and held him tighter, letting whatever strange thoughts that harboured inside his friend’s mind settle once again.


End file.
